Never Let Go
by rikkucheerio
Summary: Jen's high on painkillers. Implied character death with this one. Takes place some number of years after my WIP This Starts Here. It's not really necessary to have read that, though it would be helpful. French mistakes are Google's fault.


[A/N: Wrote this to Hanson's Never Let Go. I suggest finding it on YouTube and playing it while reading.]

Humans have an uncanny way of just accumulating stuff. Some of it is junk, some of it is important, and some of it needs to be sorted through and categorized and put away forever. Gibbs is no exception. After three years, he came back to Washington with a few boxes of possessions he didn't have when he left. Three years, just like she said it would be. Everything else he gave away-the furniture, the artwork, everything that turns a one bedroom apartment into a home. But now he's been in the city for six months and he still hasn't gone through the couple of boxes stashed in the basement. Thought about it a few times, but they still sit, untouched, beside the workbench.

But that's what rainy days in November are for.

Most of what's in the first box is bank information and bills and legal documents. That much he knew. He knew about the books in the bottom of the box and the folders of paperwork, most of it in his handwriting. Gibbs carries the box over to the stairs and sets it on the second step so he'll remember to bring it upstairs with him when he goes. It's the second box that's still a mystery to him. He breaks the seal and pushes the flaps back.

It's fitting that it's a cold, gray day that he opens this box. It wouldn't feel right to do it in the spring. Right on top are copies of the DNR order and her will. He sighs and moves them aside to get deeper into the box. He knows what each document says. He's more familiar with both than he had ever wanted to be. He doesn't even need to look at them. Tucked between a well-worn romance novel and a book on retail management, he finds an unlabeled cassette tape. It's not something he remembers, but he almost doesn't want to play it. God knows what's on it. Gibbs takes it out of the clear plastic case and swaps it for the tape that's already in the old tape player on the workbench. He presses play and waits for a moment, getting nothing but silence, though he knows the tape is playing. He decides to go back to sorting through the box while the tape plays through the silence.

_"Epiphany number... Quel numéro a été je? I have no idea. Starting over!"_

Gibbs' hands freeze as Jen's voice fills the basement. Now he remembers the tape and every word that's on it. He remembers the exact day he gave her the tape recorder and how high on Vicodin she was at the time. That's how old the tape is-right after the California diner and after the heart surgery and after she said she loved him. He sinks onto the bar stool beside him as the tape continues to play.

_"Epiphany number one: I'm hungry. I could really go for some bacon. Mmm bacon,"_ she says slowly. It's almost like having her back again. Gibbs half expects her to be standing on the stairs behind him. She just had this way of grabbing a man's attention without trying and it even comes through on the tape. Even stoned.

Gibbs can hear himself on the tape, talking in the distance. It's hard to make out every word, but he listens now. He never listened in the past. _"It's ten o'clock."_

_"So? Time is just a number. Ten at night, ten in the morning-it's all the same,"_ she answers. He smiles a little, remembering she was having trouble keeping track of time even when she wasn't high.

_"Except it's dark out, Jen,"_ he quips, still in the distance.

_"Pfft. Dark is just a...well, it's not really a color. What I mean, __**Jethro**__, is that I can have bacon whenever I damn well please."_

There's a laugh in the background, followed by, _"Long live the Queen."_

Memories are strange, fickle things. An individual can say they'll remember something until they're blue in the face and still never remember it. Other times, the most insignificant moment can become mentally frozen in time, even without being seemingly memorable at the time. And for Gibbs, there must have been something in that moment, saying those words, because he remembers it like it was yesterday. He can remember the look on her face, the one of smug satisfaction, and the smile. All the pieces of the moment came together in the right amounts to make it stick with him.

_"Damn right."_ Even on the tape, he can hear her smile. Or maybe it's just the memory of it.

_"You're feeling pretty good right now, aren't you?"_

_"Très bien,"_ she answers.

_"I can tell. You're mixing your languages,"_ he says and his voice sounds closer to the tape recorder. He must have moved over to where she was when he answered. And then there's a significant silence, but Gibbs can fill in the blank with more memories. He blinks, realizing he's been staring at the table top for a long while now.

_"It just comes out easier sometimes,"_ she answers after a moment, _"but French is a romance language, you know."_ She had spent significant time in Paris before the shooting and had gotten used to doing everything in French. He had never told her it had amazed him a little that she could be so coherent in a language not her own. But for her, it was second nature.

_"Is it?"_ he asks with words dripping with sarcasm.

_"Je t'aime,"_ is all she answers with.

The rest of the tape is silence, but Gibbs doesn't bother to turn it off. He just lets it play until the tape runs out. The silence is heavy all of a sudden and he feels like it's smothering him. It's a sharp contrast to the fullness her voice gave the room. Now, it's just empty and him and the half-finished boat.

"I miss you, Jen," he answers out loud.


End file.
